


the skull and bones remain

by karnsteins



Category: The Outsiders - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Horror, Mentions of Animal Abuse & Death, Necromancer Ponyboy Curtis, Necromancy, Resurrection, a shift key? i DO know her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28094661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karnsteins/pseuds/karnsteins
Summary: ponyboy curtis was born with magic: the ability to bring back the dead. it isn't all it's cracked up to be. alternatively: five attempts at resurrection as performed by ponyboy curtis.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	the skull and bones remain

The first time he does it, it's by accident. He's eight years old, out with his mother when they come across a whining, dying little puppy on the side of the road. The puppy is a yellow cur, with big, sad eyes, with dust and blood matted up in his fur so bad, Ponyboy can see it from a distance. Ponyboy let's go of his mother's hand, rushing to it.

At this age, he simply follows an instinct, a little spark inside of him that intrinsically understands: I can fix this. He doesn't know how to articulate it to her beyond a few simple words, "Momma, he's dying." 

"I know," Her voice is firm, sad, "We gotta let him go, Ponyboy." She reaches to him, trying to tug him away, to not make a scene. 

Ponyboy shakes his head, pulls away from her hand. He touches his fingers on the dog's furry head, ignoring the midsection of his body that was half crushed. "Momma—" He furrows his brows, not sure how to say what he's feeling: that strange yank around his midsection, that told him that if he let go of the dog, the dog really _would_ die. 

She lunges over, tries to pull him to her, reaching for his elbow, eyes daring around, trying not to let anyone else see. Ponyboy pulls back back again, backpedaling further, shuts his eyes. A feeling of rippling warmth flows through him, and his mother gasps, the sound strange, an emotion there that he's never heard from her before. 

Then the pup's wet tongue is lapping at his face eagerly. Ponyboy feels tired when he opens his eyes, to look at the little cur. He's completely reformed, body whole again. Ponyboy smiles at him, and then his vision swims, colors running together. He thinks he hears his mother crying out, but there's only blackness.

He wakes up later to hear his parents whispering in the other room. Their voices are urgent, raised. His mind is sluggish: Soda's on one side of him, Darry is on the other, and his brothers always make him feel safe and warm in their bed. He thinks more about playing than what he's done, still only able to understand it was right to have done it. The fear that he could be punished for it, that the very act in and of itself wasn't _normal_ , doesn't even occur to him as he drifts back to sleep between his sleeping brothers.

  


* * *

  


The next time he uses the magic (for it was magic, the word whispered by his mother, his father nodding as she kept her gaze on him, her hand tight on his shoulder), Ponyboy is twelve years old. Johnny's suntanned face is tear-soaked, his hands open, cupping the body of a tiny sparrow. Ponyboy knows he shouldn't do this. His mother and father have warned him of telling anyone what he can do. They've told him that doing it too much could harm him, and more than anything, they told him that strangers could take advantage.

Except… Johnny was no stranger. Hadn't been since he moved in when Pony was nine. He tells Johnny everything, including about the cur. Not even Soda knew about the cur, and yet, it was easy to tell Johnny. 

No one else has seen what he's seen: Ponyboy bringing back small things like torn butterflies, a half mangled scorpion, or toads flattened by cars. This is a bit bigger than those: it's a sparrow Johnny had been trying to nurse back to health in secret for days now. A sparrow that his father had found that night and he'd crushed it in front of him, simply to be cruel for cruelty's sake.

It's a miracle when he thinks about it, that there's enough of the bird for Johnny to offer to him. He wishes he had better magic — that he could send Johnny's parents away, make them treat Johnny better, hell even give Johnny new, better parents. Only once, he had attempted to heal Johnny's wounds and had failed miserably, making them fester rather than heal. 

All he can do, though, is reach over and place his palm over Johnny's hand, his fingers touching the tear stained inside of Johnny's wrist. He breathes, furrows his brow. The magic rises in him, reaches outward. At twelve, he knows that this is still so dangerous to do. Bringing the cur completely back to life had been an accident, and had taken so much out of him. Smaller animals he knew he could stitch them back together, bring them back to life in a way that didn't hurt him too much, didn't make him so tired. While he couldn't remember what the cur had looked like when he brought it back to life, he had seen that while he could bring the scorpion back, the severed tail didn't regrow. The butterflies wings had stayed half torn, and the toad remained flat, yet alive. 

The sparrow, he thinks, will come back, fully sewn back together in it's old form. He tries to put in more effort past bringing it back to life. For the first time, he really bends the magic to ask it to heal it. Sew every bit of it back together the way it was, before. 

It's hard, and it makes sweat break out on his skin, gooseflesh to rise up, and his head spins in an effort to try to overcome the barriers of his magic, push against the bounds. The magic seems harder to control as he does it, sweat dripping down his face, eyes screwed up tight. For a moment, he thinks that he's failed. Then the sparrow flutters, chirps. 

Ponyboy smiles at Johnny, feeling dizzy as he draws his fingers back. Johnny smiles back, and even if Ponyboy can't fix his home, can't fix his wounds, he can fix this sparrow.

  


* * *

  


He is thirteen now, holding his breath, waiting. Darry has to sleep eventually. Ponyboy waits and waits, unable to sleep in his bed. He's sure Soda is out, having cried himself to sleep. The only reason Ponyboy hasn't cried is because he knows that in a few hours, there will be nothing to cry over. 

It's almost two fifteen when Darry finally shuts off the lights. It's three-thirty when Ponyboy pulls out the book he had stolen from one of the rich socs. His hands grip it tightly, quiet as he goes around the house, gathering the needed candles, putting them in the bag with the hairbrush that still had his mother's hair in it and his father's old shirt he'd found in the laundry that still had old blood on it. He sneaks out of the house and into the street. 

He's done this on a trial for the last week, ever since the accident. He'd planned it all, refusing to accept that his parents were dead, would stay dead. 

All that time, they'd told him not to ever use his powers, not to do it. They urged him to keep it a secret from everyone else, even his brothers. They couldn't be mad at him if he did this one thing, could they? They couldn't be angry if he brought them back, made their family whole again. 

In half an hour he's shivering with cold when he finally reaches their gravesite, where they weren't going to stay. The earth is still fresh as he pulls everything out, arranges the candles, the items together. The air is clear, and when he lights the candles, they glow strong in the night. 

The switchblade bites into his skin, the blood thick and warm as it flows out of him. Fumbling he cuts open both hands, and the pain is worth it, it will be worth it. 

The book is clear on what to do as he begins, one hand clutching the hairbrush, one hand with the shirt. He reaches into himself, into that well of magic within him.

This needed more magic than it took to revive a sparrow or a cur. Ponyboy can feel sweat bead his forehead as he reaches further into himself than he ever has before, in the magic waiting there. Magic so vast, so deep, and he knows that he's only skimmed the surface of it before. The books have told him things, that amateurs can only do so much with it, that wrangling with it would always be hard for a first time user. Ponyboy had been a good kid before; he'd done what his parents asked, hadn't done much with his magic. 

Now, though, it feels imperative that he break their rules, that he ignores their warnings. What was the point in having this magic, if he couldn't use it when it mattered the most? What use was magic if it couldn't right a wrong like this? 

And there is so much magic inside of him: it is deep, waiting for him, and when he yanks it upwards, as he tries to make it bend to his will, there is so much _more_ of it than he thought there would be. So much that he begins to struggle, keeping a hold on it. He can hear himself gasping, can feel the magic starting to tear at his skin, his bones with the force of it. The magic seems to crest and crash down on him, racing out of his body, and Ponyboy can't keep hold of it any longer. 

It expels itself out of him in a blinding rush, a strangled scream leaving him as it goes. He writhes with it, the magic clawing outward, seeking more and more. Desperately, he tries to control it again, tries to get it under control. The magic pulses, unhappy at being called with such effort only to be pushed down again. There's an acrid smell of the candles, the feel of their warmth turning from merely welcoming to something malevolent. 

"C'mon, c'mon," Pony pants, eyes finally opening again, hands clawing at the earth. The magic continues to spill out of him, and Ponyboy expects at the very least for the earth to be turned over, to hear his parents starting to knock at their caskets. 

There is nothing. He squints his eyes, still grappling with the power seeping out of him, hand shaking as he wraps his hand around the wick of a candle, putting it out. It hisses as it burns out, and helps the magic to lessen too. He reaches for another candle, feeling still confused when he hears it: the sound of something bumping up against a casket. 

For a moment there is hope. 

Then he freezes when he realizes, however, that it's not coming from his parent's caskets. His eyes land on a grave that is two feet away, as a thunderous boom echoes in the graveyard. 

The candles burn higher than before, and Ponyboy for the first time resolutely gains control of his magic and seals it shut. 

It's too late; he knows it. 

It cannot and will not stop the pounding in the other graves around him. Won't stop the dead from breaking through, from rising up. Unparalleled terror fills him as the dead begin to indeed rise not from his parents still untouched graves but from all around him in the cemetery. 

"No, _no_ ," Ponyboy looks on with horror as arms begin to break the surface. The hold on his own magic begins to loosen as one by one, bodies being to emerge, as shrieks begin to rent the air. He has brought the dead back; but not the ones he meant to. 

The book didn't say what to do in this situation. It didn't say what to counter it with, and as grotesque faces begin to emerge too, his grip on his magic leaves completely in a panic. The remaining candles sputter up so high and hot, Ponyboy will never forget the face of a leering, half decomposed body with a jaw hanging by the tatters of flesh when it turns to him. 

All he thinks is that he wants this, needs this to stop. 

The magic lashes out violently in a harsh, terrified wave that is vast enough that the candles go out entirely. It does it's job, though, as every single dead that began to rise collapses all at once in a fleshy, disgusting heap. 

Ponyboy is left shaking, face starting to run hot with tears. The revelation he had wanted to ignore for days now, finally begins to permeate his mind, the loss of his parents finally begins to be real, immutable.

His parents are lost. Forever. Magic is many things, all at once, but as it turns out, it is not merciful to him. It will not let him avoid this, will not let him subvert their deaths and the well of grief inside of him fully opens.

  


* * *

  


He doesn't re-animate anything else for three months. He comes home that night with muddy shoes, a tear streaked faced, twin scars on his hands. He does not tell his brothers what he's tried to do, even Soda. He does not tell Johnny either, and holds this painful, awful secret to himself. Books don't tell him enough of what he needs to know, about why it doesn't work. 

Ponyboy wants to forget about the magic. Ignores it tugging at the edges of his psyche, ignores the spark in him when he sees a cat struggling for air, ignores the tug when he can feel that there's a dog trying to get another breath. 

He thinks he'll go the rest of his life ignoring it. What was the point?

  


* * *

  


Then: Bob Sheldon shoves him underneath a fountain. He struggles for air, tries to get up, tries to breathe in anything but water. He wants, needs the magic to come springing from him, but as he beings to lose consciousness, the magic comes too late. 

When he gasps awake, shivering and cold, he can smell blood thickly in the air. He can see Bob's body illuminated in the moonlight. He stares, and thinks: _I can bring him back, I can't let Johnny get the chair_.

He tries to spark it, make it work. The magic is as weak as his own body, and it means they have to run. 

So they do.

  


* * *

  


This time, when he goes to the cemetery, he's waited longer than three days. He had to wait a week for the Cades to throw out Johnny's clothes, sneaking into their trash for the jacket he's looking for. Dallas' brown leather jacket has stayed with him ever since the church, and Ponyboy knows it should be enough for this. 

He doesn't bring the book this time. It's not necessary. 

His parents hadn't come back last time, but this is different. He hopes that this time, maybe it can work. Maybe this time the magic could be done correctly, and this time…

Ponyboy looks at Johnny's small, modest grave. The Cades had barely bothered to take care of his body. Dallas' grave is beside his — it had been taken care of by Darry, with no hope for anyone to find Dallas' family members. It had been the rest of them at his funeral, Ponyboy's ears still ringing with his last words. He situates himself between them both taking out his switchblade again, reopening the twin scars from before. 

This time, he doesn't need the candles or the book. He remembers the words, remembers what it meant to reach inside of himself without their help. Ponyboy places his hands on their clothes, begins to murmur the words, reach out to them. 

Last time he'd done this, it had been so different. He had thought he couldn't lose, that they would come to him if he asked. This time, he doesn't have the same confidence. The desperation he tastes as the air begins to warp, as the magic he'd avoided before comes back up, is different. Now, that losing can happen, that maybe it would reject him like before, and he throws everything in him to make it happen, to at least get them back. 

The magic seems happier to be called on this time, more willing to be wielded. Ponyboy keeps a firmer grip on it, working to reach Johnny first, to try and pull him up, to rouse him. "Please, Johnny," he says, voice quiet, feeling the sweat start to gather on his forehead, his neck, his shoulders. "Please, it's me, it's _Ponyboy_." 

There's a shimmer, a feeling of warmth that recalled the fire they shared in the lot, of watching a sunset at dawn, encircling him now. All at once, Ponyboy can smell Johnny's hair, can feel his arms around him. The grief he's been holding in his chest feels heavier than before as he sobs, having missed the feeling, missed Johnny so badly. He wants to reach out to embrace Johnny — knowing he can't, he bows forward, hands squeezing, the blood still leaking out sluggishly from his hands. "Come back, please come back, Johnny. You ain't gotta go home with them, you can— you ca-can stay—"

"No," Johnny's voice is disembodied, and it tears into Ponyboy's heart with the way he sounds, "No, Ponyboy. I told you, I was okay with it." That feeling of his arms wrapping around him loosens, and Ponyboy chokes on the sob that tears out of his throat. "I'm okay now. I don't want to come back. I'm okay." His voice grows stronger for a moment, stronger than it was ever in life. "Don't stay hung up on me, Ponyboy. You gotta — you gotta move on. I had my time and you need yours." 

There's one more squeeze, Ponyboy filled with Johnny's presence, his hopes for him, his dreams. He thinks he can even feel the sunset they watched back in the church from Johnny's presence. Then there's nothing. The connection dissipates, leaving Ponyboy choking, sobbing utterly bereft. 

His hand shakes — he heaves and reaches out to Dallas now, puts all his mind to it. Where Johnny emanated a gentle warmth, there's nothing but a searing, deep cold with Dallas. It's a kind of stabbing, vindictive cold that made someone reach for a coat or desperately rush back inside to warmth. Ponyboy gasps, thinking the tears are freezing to his skin before he can gasp out, "Dallas?"

Johnny had held him; Dallas' fingers sink into his body, more like claws than anything else. "What are you doing here, Pony?" His voice is disembodied, sharp, hungry.

"I came— I came to bring you back," Ponyboy chokes out the words, breathing in that sharp cold, begging, "Please, Dal." He can feel a wash of Dallas' emotions, the anger that always seemed to be an intrinsic part of him, the way he always seemed to cling to it, need it. In death, it feels so much stronger, "Johnny — Johnny said no, but Dallas _please_ come back it wasn't fair." He screws his eyes shut as the cold blasts him again, his fingers tight on the magic in spite of it. 

He thinks for a moment that Dallas will say no, too. He'll sink back into the grave, he'll refuse. Ponyboy pours himself into it, into what it was like to see Dallas die, the way reality seemed to break around their deaths, the desperation that had lived in him since he'd seen his body fall. 

Dallas' presence deepens. "Johnny wanted you to see— see what he saw, what I saw. I don't want you dead, you didn't deserve to die, Dallas. I know you chose it, I know what you did but it doesn't— that doesn't have to be the end." Every word is painful as it tears itself out of his throat. 

He's not sure if he makes himself clear. The magic takes over, trying to express what he'd felt to watch Dallas die. The loss he'd felt, the questions afterwards, Johnny's letter. Understanding that yes, Dallas wasn't a good person to some, but to Ponyboy, to their friends, his death had left a hole. 

Ponyboy can't fix everything. He can't heal, but he can undo this. He can offer an alternative to being gunned down by the police, to having no one but a small group of boys mourn for Dallas and no one else. Emotions are not a one way street; just as he felt Johnny's emotions, he feels Dallas' too: the anger over Johnny's death, the helplessness, the fear that Ponyboy would die the same was as Johnny, sacrificing himself for others to no avail, the raging at a world that didn't make sense, that would never protect people like Johnny or Ponyboy.

"It's not like that," Ponyboy's teeth chatter as he pushes back, "It don't have to be like that, Dal. Please, _please_. Just— just come back. Come back and it won't be like that."

It feels as if icicles, hard and sharp have stabbed his skin, and Ponyboy is so, so afraid. If his words weren't enough, if maybe he couldn't convince Dallas to come back, to have hope in a better world. And then he hears a solid crack. He can feel that hunger, that anger all over, and when he opens his eyes, he sees Dallas, expression furious but alive, as he crawls out of his own grave. 

His skin is pale, his hair matted with the earth. His eyes glitter as he keeps his gaze on Ponyboy. The magic solidifies itself in him, anchors him to his body. 

He's chosen to live again. 

Ponyboy lets go, tumbling into the earth, gasping for air. The night sky is full of stars, and when Dallas leans over him, he can only feel so grateful that he's back. 

"You talk a lot of shit, don't you, kid?" Dallas sneers above him, and Ponyboy doesn't even mind how awful he smells so close to him, "You know you can't guarantee anything you just said." 

"I can try," is what Ponyboy murmurs out. 

Dallas glares down at him, but he must believe in it, to be alive, to be here. And that's all he can ask for now: for Dallas to believe in the possibility of more, to choose to be with him, even when Johnny couldn't be.

**Author's Note:**

> 🧟. thanks for reading! please comment, kudos, come holler at me, at @madeleinepryor tumblr! this was 100% inspired by the fact that ponyboy is like, surrounded by death.


End file.
